


the answers are out there in the drowning deep

by hihoplastic



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Hecate is a bit different, Pippa is still Pippa, Real Shitty Family, but all the angst is still there!, sorta - Freeform, this got wildly out of control
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:48:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25511596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hihoplastic/pseuds/hihoplastic
Summary: They come from all across the UK, some internationally, to sit in the dingy club every night after 10pm. They pack themselves in with a drink, and the band starts up they begin to quiet, waiting. They’ve heard the stories: the woman in the little coastal town who sings so beautifully, you forget: all your sorrows, all your tears. You forget your name, sometimes, and the names of the people you love. You forget what you want, and what you don’t have. All you know is the song, the lull of her voice, sweet and unearthly, and for a little while, for those moments, you are free. This is what they’re told. What they come for.They are never disappointed.
Relationships: Hardbroom/Pentangle (Worst Witch)
Comments: 76
Kudos: 110





	1. here where the daylight begins

**Author's Note:**

> \- all titles from vienna teng's "harbor"  
> \- for @nike-sga (Finally!) who requested an AU. I'm so sorry this took so long, and I hope you enjoy it!  
> 

127 days. 

That’s all that’s left. 

Hecate closes her eyes, feels the sting of the salt air on her cheeks and listens to the sea roll in. She doesn’t dare approach it, stays rooted to the shoreline several meters back, but it calls to her. Whispers. Shouts. Begs. 

_Come home._

It’s torture, but she can’t stay away. Every night she stands, barefoot in the sand, listens to the waves and the soft song of the ocean: whale-song drifting in and out on the breeze, the starfish clinging to the rocks further out; she hears the laughter of the others, though she thinks they’ve forgotten her, after all this time. 

The ocean has not. 

It beckons her, misses her. She hears the call in her dreams every night, and wakes up with tears on her cheeks and the taste of salt in her mouth. 

Part of her wishes she couldn’t remember. What it was like when she was whole. 

The sun sets and the air cools and she can hear the others, far out, safe.

127 days. 

She opens her eyes, and turns away.

\--

The club is the same as it is every night. Tourists and locals packed into the small, dark crevices, ripped velvet upholstery and stained barstools, but no one cares. The drinks are watered down and the lights are hot, but people aren’t there to mingle—they’re there to listen. To hear music. To hear her. 

“Something upbeat tonight,” he tells her, restocking the cabinets below the bar. “You’ll put everyone to sleep with that maudlin drivel.” 

“Yes, Grandfather.” 

It’s most of what she says, these days. _Yes, Grandfather. No, Grandfather. Grandfather, please—_ but he never listens. Hasn’t listened in years, and after a while, she stopped speaking. Forgot how. The anger is always there—simmering under her skin, making her itch, her hands curled into fists against her thighs, but she’s learned: her emotions are irrelevant. They have no place here, they never have. Not on land. Not with him. All he cares about is the end of the night, when he empties the till, gives her just enough to buy food and other necessities. On a good night, he ignores her—grins at the stacks of bills and tells her when he has enough, when it’s all enough, he’ll let her go. On a good night, he doesn’t pay attention when she slips away, down to the sea, settles on a dark corner of sand and passes the moonlit hours, wishing. 

On bad nights, when her voice is hoarse or the crowd is thin, he points to the wall behind the stage and says _Never._

Those are the nights she believes the most. 

\-- 

They come from all across the UK, some internationally, to sit in the dingy club every night after 10pm. They pack themselves in with a drink, and the band starts up they begin to quiet, waiting. They’ve heard the stories: the woman in the little coastal town who sings so beautifully, you forget: all your sorrows, all your tears. You forget your name, sometimes, and the names of the people you love. You forget what you want, and what you don’t have. All you know is the song, the lull of her voice, sweet and unearthly, and for a little while, for those moments, you are free. This is what they’re told. What they come for. 

They are never disappointed. 

Tonight, she heeds her grandfather’s words and sings _Fly Me To The Moon_ and _Can’t We Be Friends. Non Je Ne Regrette Rien_ makes people cheer, and her version of _Summertime_ makes them weep, though when the song is over, they cannot remember why. 

When the night is over, her grandfather ushers her off stage and into the back, the small greenroom where she stares at her reflection in the mirror and never quite recognizes the woman staring back. It’s part of the allure—no one ever speaks to her, no one ever gets close. All they get are her songs, and it makes them hungry for more, to come back. 

The people in town know her, but barely—they ring up her items at the grocery store, they see her standing by the water’s edge, but they never get to _know_ her, never really speak to her beyond complimenting her voice, asking where she learned to sing like that, if she ever intends to leave, to sing professionally elsewhere. 

She doesn’t, and she can’t, and she wouldn’t regardless. The further she is from the ocean, the more it hurts. 

Her grandfather tried that, in the beginning. Tried to take her on tour, around the UK, back when she was young, just after her father died. Tried to parade her around nightclubs in London. But she was too weak, her voice strained, tired and pale and unable to make the same magic she could near the ocean. _Useless,_ he’d called her. Blamed her for all of it, instead of blaming himself. 

She stares at her reflection, at the pocket watch she wears, her father’s, his last gift to her on his deathbed. He’d tried, her father—tried to get her away. To let her go. Tried to convince her to leave before he died, but she couldn’t abandon him, despite everything. 

She paid for it, in the end. 

\--

Hecate rarely notices who’s in the club. If they’re people from town, people she knows. If they’re tourists. They all look the same to her, all blend together, her eyes unfocused under the stage lights.

She has 111 days left when there’s a flash of pink out of the corner of her eye. It’s reflecting off a glass, and she can’t quite tell where it’s coming from, but it’s bright and distracting and she tries not to grimace on stage. It stays for her entire set, just out of view, and by the time she’s done, off stage, back in the dark of the greenroom, when she closes her eyes she still sees flashes of color. 

\--

She wraps up a set and disappears backstage the way she does every night. She listens to the crowd beg for an encore, something her grandfather never allows. She listens to the band continue to play on without her, waits for talk to die down before she slips out the back and makes her way toward the beach. She takes off her shoes and lets her feet curl into the sand. She listens for the others, to the gulls’ soft cries, to the ocean, whimpering. 

She listens for a singular voice, but it never comes.

It’s almost cold tonight, winter steadily approaching, and she dreads it. The crowds dwindle in the cooler months, and her grandfather is always angry. As if it’s her fault he spends the money they make in the summer instead of saving it. As if it is her fault people don’t come as often, or stay as long. As if it’s her fault the sea is too cold to swim in for mortals, for ordinary folks and witches alike. 

The town is a strange place, always has been. Full of those with and without magic, visited by those with and without magic. It’s a place for those with magic to keep a low profile, to hide away from the witching world; a place for ordinary people to get just a taste of what they think might be real, might not be true. 

She’s always been able to feel it, the magic, though she doesn’t possess any herself. Her grandfather has it, her father had it, but magic is always passed down through the mother, and her mother wasn’t a witch. Her magic was singular. Different. 

_A waste,_ her grandfather always said, still says, shaking his head and glaring at her. _You’re a waste._

Hecate stares out at the ocean and remembers when she wasn’t, when she was more: long summers swimming so far out into the ocean with her mother. Nights spent on the deck of their little cabin by the sea, while her father played guitar and her mother sang, her voice so sweet, carried on the wind. 

She has her mother’s voice, she knows. 

Her mother’s temperament. Her mother’s pain. 

She thinks of her often, and how much she loved her. How she couldn’t love her quite enough to stay.

\-- 

She’s at the farmer’s market buying apples, 97 days left, when she turns and collides with something soft and warm and pink. 

The woman gasps as Hecate’s bag falls from her arms, produce rolling across the small aisle, a jar of honey cracking open against the pavement, and her voice is vaguely familiar, like a long lost friend. 

“I’m so sorry,” she says, scrambling on the ground for the fallen food. “I wasn’t even paying attention—are you alright?” 

Hecate looks her over: she’s in a bright pink coat, a white scarf tied around her neck. The woman has magic, she knows. She can feel it, but it isn’t like her grandfather’s magic—isn’t dark and snappish or grey. Hers is light, feels like yellow, reminds her, somehow, of pearls—when she was young, and her mother was with her, and they swam far out together and brought back shells from the ocean floor, when they sat on the shore and cracked them open against rocks, filled clear glass jars with the pearls and used them to decorate the mantel, their iridescent colors shining when the sun came through the window. 

She blinks away the memory, stares at the woman currently staring at her, a bit anxious, a bit confused. Her hair is blonde and her eyes are kind and Hecate forgets, for a moment, how to speak. What words she should say or how she should say them. 

Hecate clears her throat. “I—it’s fine,” she says stiffly. 

The woman looks down into the paper bag at the mangled fruits and vegetables. “Let me buy you a new batch.” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Hecate says, but there’s something else, something inside her that says, _stay._

“I feel terrible,” the woman insists, “The honey, at least.” 

She says it so decisively, already moving down the aisle, toward the shop at the very end, and Hecate has no choice but to follow her, her produce still clutched in the woman’s arms. When she falls in step with her, the woman glances at her and smiles. 

“I’m Pippa, by the way.” 

Hecate isn’t certain why her name is relevant, but she has enough social grace to respond in kind. 

“Hecate.” 

Pippa smiles. “I know. I saw you at the club a few weeks ago. You sing beautifully.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Do you enjoy it?” 

Hecate blinks. People compliment her all the time, ask how long she’s been singing, where she learned, what her tricks are. They ask her if she’s trained, if she plans to leave town and make it big, they tell her she could, she should. No one’s ever asked if she _likes_ it. If it matters to her. 

She should, she knows, say yes. The most artificial answer, the least personal. But Pippa stops at the end of the line for the honey, a few people in front of them, and looks up at her with genuine interest—she isn’t curious or nosey or secretly hoping for some drama or other, and it’s the open expression on her face, those soft eyes, that make her say, 

“Sometimes.” 

Pippa nods like she knows, though she can’t know. 

She buys her a new jar of honey. 

When she passes it to Hecate, their fingers brush, and for the first time in a long time, Hecate feels warm. 

—

She sees the flash of pink again when she’s on stage, and this time, focuses in on it, sees Pippa sitting at the bar, nursing a drink, staring. She tries not to, but her gaze keeps drifting, like she knows her. She can’t quite make out her features, not until the end of the set, when she steps out of the lights and her vision clears. 

Pippa is crying. Silently, a few stray tears on her cheeks that she wipes quickly away. 

She’s there by herself, but doesn’t get up to leave. Instead, she orders another drink, looks at Hecate, and waves. 

She hesitates. 

She should go backstage, should disappear. She never sticks around, and her grandfather doesn’t like her to, regardless. But Pippa is smiling at her, and her blouse is a loud magenta, stands out in the dark crowded room, and she reminds her of someone, though Hecate can’t quite remember who. 

There isn’t a lot she remembers anymore, her memories frayed by the monotony of her day to day, the markings on her wall in her small flat: 92 days. 

She looks to her grandfather, but he’s busy, making the rounds and talking to customers, so she moves quietly across the room and stands next to Pippa, who holds out the drink. 

“I didn’t know what you liked,” she says, “So it’s just water. I thought you might be thirsty.” 

Hecate accepts the drink and nods. She’s always parched after a set, but it’s always the ocean she longs for. She takes a sip, and the water is cool, but it doesn’t help the dryness in her mouth, her confusion. 

“You were wonderful,” Pippa says, not seeming at all bothered by her silence. 

“You’ve been here before,” Hecate remarks, and Pippa nods. 

“A few weeks ago. I stopped by on my way up to Edinburgh. Decided to come back and stay a while.” 

“What for?” 

Pippa shrugs. “Just needed a getaway, you know? This town is lovely.” 

She doesn’t know what possesses her, what makes her look Pippa in the eye. “I hate it here.” 

Pippa tilts her head and takes a sip of her drink, whisky, by the looks of it. “How come?” 

Hecate doesn’t answer. She can’t tell her the truth, can’t look back over her shoulder at the wall behind the stage, can’t explain about her grandfather or her tiny flat or the ocean. 

Pippa doesn’t press. Instead, her eyes soften, and she looks away for a moment, then downs the rest of her drink, as if gathering her courage. “Want to get out of here?” 

Hecate arches an eyebrow. She’s been propositioned a few times, usually by men, usually drunk, and she always declines. Has never once wanted to go back to someone’s rental or apartment or little beach house. Has never once been curious about a man and his desires. 

But Pippa flushes, almost as pink as her blouse, and shakes her head. “Not like that. I just meant—I like to walk on the beach at night. I’m here by myself, and I could use the company?” 

Hecate studies her. The slight lines around her eyes. The way she holds her hands in her lap, and fiddles with her ring. 

“Why me?” 

Pippa bites her lip, and it’s endearing. 

“The normal answer, or the real one?” she asks, and Hecate blinks in surprise. She should turn around. Walk away. Go home. She can feel the static of her grandfather’s magic, getting closer. 

“The real one.” 

Pippa looks down at her hands for a moment, then back up, and for the first time, the light in her eyes has dimmed. She’s smiling, but it’s a bit haphazard, a bit broken. 

“Because you look as sad as I am,” she says. 

Hecate doesn’t move. For a long moment, they stare at one another, and for some reason, she hears the echo of childish laughter, feels the imprint of a hand on her spine. 

“I’ll get my coat.” 

—

They walk along the pier, slowly, lights from the small town like a pointillist backdrop, everything slightly blurred. Pippa tells her she’s on winter holiday, that she runs her own school outside London, that her father recently passed away and that she’d needed a break, an escape. 

“Why here?” 

Pippa shrugs. “My parents have a beach house. We used to come here for vacation when I was a child. It reminds me of them, in a good way.” 

Hecate nods. 

“Have you lived here long?” Pippa asks. 

“My whole life.” 

“It must be nice,” Pippa says, looking out at the ocean. “To be this close to the sea.” 

There’s a lump in her throat she can’t quite swallow. Beyond the pier, she hears the others, laughing, the splashes as they roam the waves. The ocean croons, but she knows Pippa can’t hear it, not the way she can. Not with all its longing, all its sorrow. 

Hecate doesn’t answer, and Pippa doesn’t press her. They spend a while at the edge of the pier, staring out into the inky blackness of the horizon line, and Hecate wonders if Pippa is searching for something out there, too. Something she can’t quite name.

—

Every morning, Hecate works in the club, restocking and cleaning and making sure the equipment is set up properly for the band. There are a few others who work there, but they give her a wide berth—her grandfather doesn’t like her to interact with the staff, and she knows why. Knows, especially, why he keeps her away from witches and wizards, lest they develop a bond. Lest someone care about her enough. 

She wipes down tables and cleans glasses behind the bar, her profile to the stage. She never looks directly at it. Never wants to see: 

Her pelt, tacked firmly to the wall. 

She can feel the spell even now, the one that keeps it in place, keeps anyone from touching it, keeps anyone from properly seeing it. 

Everyone except her. 

It’s her reminder every day.

But she can hear it, calling to her. Hears when she stands too close to it, when she’s on stage, a quiet crying, like it misses her as much as she misses it, as if it knows what she’s been through. 

Her mother always said their skins were like a room where they could feel safe and loved. _As long as you have it, you’ll never be alone._


	2. the safety of shoreline fading away

Pippa returns to the club the next night. 

And the night after that. 

And the night after that. 

87 days. 

She tries, at first, to meet Hecate in the club. To offer her a drink of water when she’s done, to stay and talk at the bar. But Hecate sees her grandfather watching her closely, a frown on his face, and she’s afraid. 

“He doesn’t like it when I talk to patrons,” she says. 

Pippa shrugs. “Then I won’t be a patron.” 

Instead, Pippa meets her at the pier. Most nights, after the sun has gone down, after Hecate has left the club, she finds Pippa waiting for her near the water. Sometimes Pippa brings treats—a donut from the shop down the road, or a bag of crisps, or coffee. 

She always asks how it went, and Hecate always responds the same: “Fine.” 

Pippa nods, and they take a different path each night, sometimes along the beach, sometimes near the docks, sometimes along the rows of brightly colored sheds that line the path around the beach. 

Hecate never gets too close to the water, never risks the temptation. 

They talk about all manner of things: politics and art and Pippa’s family. They talk about nothing at all: the weather, the woman at the market who always wears a different colored hat, the tourist vendors that all sell the same paintings. 

Hecate doesn’t share much about her past, her life, but Pippa seems to understand what she says in her silence, and looks at her one night, asks, 

“Why don’t you leave?”

Hecate shrugs one shoulder. “It’s all I’ve ever known.” 

“Sometimes that’s worse than the alternative,” Pippa says gently, and Hecate nods, hesitates, then says, 

“My grandfather owns this town. Anything I tried to do, he would stop me. Anywhere I tried to go, he followed. He has—” She stops, almost tells her, can’t. “He has something of mine. I can’t leave without it.” 

Pippa frowns. “What does he have?” 

For a moment, she thinks about telling her. Everything. All of it. She stops, looks into Pippa’s eyes, sees nothing but kindness, concern. 

She thinks of the last person she told, so many years ago. The butcher’s wife, a woman with three children who tried so hard. 

Her grandfather ruined them. The whole family. 

She shakes her head. 

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, continuing to walk, Pippa falling in step beside her. “It’s just the way things are, and always will be.” 

Pippa nods, and though she doesn’t look convinced, she reaches out, and takes Hecate’s hand. 

—

_Autumn in New York_ always makes her grandfather pause. She doesn’t sing it often, but sometimes he’ll command it, stand off behind the bar and listen, tears in his eyes. She knows he isn’t seeing her—knows in those moments that she’s nothing more than a specter of her mother. It was her favorite song, and he used to play piano to accompany her. When she left, he sold the instrument, sold all his instruments, her father’s guitar. 

He sold her parents’ house, everything that belonged to them, kept only a few things of her mother’s for himself. While her father was alive, he’d refused to let her grandfather touch anything; but after he died, it all disappeared. Hecate had been a teenager, too grief-stricken and quiet to protest, but she wishes she had. Wishes she had something of her mother’s, now, besides her voice. 

Hecate watches her grandfather out of the corner of her eye, sees the way his eyes fill with tears. She pities him, most days. The tired old man who lost his wife and child. Who closed off his heart to anyone or anything else, including her. 

As the song ends, he lifts his chin and turns away. The spell broken. 

—

They’re sitting on a log far up on the beach, watching the tide lick the sand. The moon is nearly full, and Pippa is drawing with her magic in the sand, building little castles and wiping them away with a gentle breeze. 

“What’s it like?” Hecate asks, “Having magic?” 

Pippa smiles. “It’s like...having a friend with you, at all times. Like never being alone. It doesn’t mean I don’t feel lonely, sometimes. But my magic—it’s alive inside me. I’d be lost without it.” 

Hecate thinks of the sea. 63 days left. 

“What’s it like, not having magic?” 

Hecate looks out towards the water, and wants to say, _I am magic._ Instead, she shrugs. “Like being alone, always.” 

Pippa eyes her sadly, leans her head on Hecate’s shoulder. “Not anymore. You have me.” 

“You have to leave eventually.” 

Pippa sighs. “You could come with me,” she says, like she already knows the answer. 

“My grandfather would never let me.” 

Pippa scowls. “Then we won’t tell him. We’ll pack up and disappear in the dead of night.” 

Hecate almost laughs. “And go where?” 

“Anywhere you want.” 

Hecate hums. “Pentangle’s,” she says. “I want to see your school.” 

“Boring,” Pippa returns. “Athens. I want to see the Acropolis.” 

“I suppose it’s near enough to the water.” 

Pippa tilts her head and looks up at her. “You really love the ocean, don’t you?” 

“It reminds me of my mother,” she says, only half a lie. “We had a house, not far from here. We swam every day, as far out as we could, only coming back when it turned dark. My father would be waiting for us on the porch with sweets.” 

Pippa tucks her head back in the crook of Hecate’s neck. “I had a friend like that when I was a child,” she muses. “She always saved me something, brought it to my window at night.”

It sounds familiar, like a forgotten story, retold. 

“We used to dance in the ocean together,” Pippa says wistfully. “I’ve always wanted to do that again.” 

Hecate looks away, wishes she could stand up, pull Pippa to her feet and guide her into the water. She can’t, and she won’t, and they stay silent for a while longer, each in their own thoughts. 

And then Pippa sighs, and reaches for her hand. “Do you really feel alone?” 

For a long while, Hecate doesn’t answer. She stares out at the waves, creeping their way up and down the shore. Listens, and she can hear the whales far out, singing to one another of the things they’ve seen. She hears the laughter of the merfolk, deep underwater. She thinks of her mother, the way she’d plait her hair in the morning, the way she’d sing to her, lullabies in an ancient tongue. She got her voice from her mother. Her grandfather once told her that, a long time ago, before he changed. Told her she was the last piece of his daughter he had left. 

She thinks of him now, bitter and cruel, and broken-hearted. 

“Always,” she whispers, and the wind carries it away. 

—

She spends nearly every night with Pippa. Sometimes on the beach, some days they return to Pippa’s beach house, sit on the porch and watch the waves from there. For some reason, being in Pippa’s presence is easy as breathing. She’s familiar, soft, warm, in ways that Hecate can’t explain, doesn’t fully understand. She knows she finds Pippa attractive—has from the moment they met, has felt, always, the desire to brush her hair back from her cheek, to kiss the edge of her shoulder, to hold her hand. 

Pippa is more demonstrative, often leaning in to kiss Hecate’s cheek, to touch her arm or her leg as they sit next to one another on her sofa, glasses of wine between them. They watch old films and silly tv shows Hecate relentlessly mocks, sending Pippa into fits of giggles. Hecate loves that sound. Loves her laugh, loves drawing a wide smile from her lips, loves the feeling in her own chest, that she’s made Pippa happy, however briefly. 

Because her sadness is lingering. Her grief, and Pippa talks about her father, how much she misses him. It’s an ache Hecate knows too well, and when Pippa cries one night, unable to stop, Hecate doesn’t feel strange at all, pulling her close, running her fingers through Pippa’s hair. There’s little she can say—she’d never liked platitudes herself—so she hums softly, sings quietly, until the sound of her voice lulls Pippa to sleep. 

—

The first snowfall comes early, gentle flakes, and Pippa’s eyes grow bright and dreamy at the sight of the ocean, touching snow. 

They walk along the beach in the sand, and Pippa marvels at the soft dusting of white, reflecting in the lights from the pier. 

“We always came here in summer,” she explains, grinning up at the dark sky. “My best friend—she used to tell me stories, of what it was like in winter. How much she loved it. But I’ve never seen it before.” 

Hecate follows her gaze skywards, and feels at once rather jaded. She used to love the beach in winter, used to swim with her mother in the ice cold of the ocean, used to dance on the beach and catch snowflakes on her tongue, her father laughing from the porch. 

She’s lived here so long, seen so many winters, she’s forgotten, somehow. The beauty of it. 

She looks at Pippa, her head tipped back, and thinks that it pales in comparison regardless.

Pippa looks at her with a grin, and Hecate flushes, looks away. When she looks back, Pippa is taking off her coat. 

“What are you doing?” 

Pippa scoffs, as if she’s particularly dense. “It’s snowing in the ocean,” she says. “As if I’m not going to go swimming.” 

Hecate blanches. “You’ll catch your death!” 

Pippa grins. “I’ll race you.” 

“No,” Hecate says stiffly. “I’m not—”

Pippa peels off her trousers, left only in her shirt and underwear, tosses her clothes to the ground and takes off towards the water. 

Hecate calls after her, tries to get her to stop, but she doesn’t—just barrels headlong into the water, then screeches and runs back out. 

Hecate rolls her eyes, but keeps careful watch as she dives back in, shouting and laughing and calling for Hecate to join her. 

She can’t. Wishes she could, but the ocean is too strong, and if she goes in, she knows, she’ll never leave. She’ll drown in it, far out to sea, and she won’t do that to herself, nor to Pippa. Instead, she stands on the shore and shouts at her to be careful and come back and Pippa dances around in the waves. 

Dances, and dances, and she remembers when she was a child, dancing and dancing in the waves with someone she can’t remember. She can’t see their face or remember their name, just thinks, sometimes, about the way their hands fit together, fingers tangled as they danced and danced in the shallows. 

Eventually, Pippa returns, flakes of snow in her hair and shivering violently. Hecate helps her back into her trousers, wraps her coat around her and does up the buttons when Pippa’s hands shake too much. She ties Pippa’s scarf around her neck and fixes the lapels on her coat, and all of sudden she’s standing so close, and Pippa is trembling, but she’s smiling, smiling so brightly, and she reaches up a shaky hand and touches cold fingers to Hecate’s cheek. 

She isn’t certain who moves first, but Pippa’s lips are freezing, and Hecate has never been warm, but the desire to wrap her up is too strong. Her hands find their way into Pippa’s wet hair and Pippa clings to her, opens her mouth and grips the back of Hecate’s neck, hauling her closer. Pippa tastes like salt water, like home, and Hecate feels her eyes sting and she kisses her harder, tries to chase the feeling of comfort and want. Pippa’s hands flutter over her shoulders and when she pulls back she’s breathless, eyes blown wide. 

“Take me home.” 

—

By the time they make it back to Pippa’s cabin, she’s shivering, lips a bit blue, and they don’t speak as Hecate strips her out of her clothes. Pippa’s hands are chilled against her cheeks as she stops to kiss her, pushes Hecate’s coat off her shoulders so it pools on the ground behind her. 

Pippa’s skin is cold, goosebumps rising on her skin as Hecate holds her hips gently, and Pippa presses closer to her, nuzzles her cheek into Hecate’s shoulder. 

It’s been a long time since she’s been with anyone, but Hecate doesn’t feel nervous. Pippa kisses her slowly, languidly, like they have all the time in the world, no rush or clash of teeth. Everything is soft and gentle as Pippa helps her out of her own clothes, takes her hand and leads her to a small bedroom, lays her out on the sheets and touches her like she’s something precious, something sacred. 

Pippa’s skin warms under her touch, her moans send shivers down Hecate’s spine, and they wrap themselves up in blankets, Pippa’s head pillowed on Hecate’s breast. When her breathing evens out, Hecate trails her hand up and down Pippa’s spine, stares at the ceiling and doesn’t quite understand why she feels so content, here. She’s never felt that way with another person before, save a shadow of a memory she can never place. She feels lighter, somehow, with Pippa’s weight against her, her soft breathing against her skin. 

When she finally slips into sleep, it’s the first night in so many years, she sleeps without dreams. 

—

Despite her numbering days, Hecate feels, for the first time, something akin to contentment. She spends her days at the club, sings for her grandfather, and spends her nights with Pippa. If her grandfather has noticed a change in her demeanor, he says nothing; but some days, she catches him watching her out of the corner of his eye, a hard look there that makes her uneasy. 

And yet, she can’t stay away. Pippa meets her by the docks around two am, with ice cream cones. Hecate laughs, has no idea where she’s gotten them, but they wander the promenade, exchanging sticky kisses, and Hecate feels bright. Feels free, or as close to free as she’s felt in decades, despite the ever-present call of the ocean. 

The days dwindle—58, 45, 37. 

They stumble back into Pippa’s home, giddy and breathless, hands already fluttering, pushing coats and pulling shirts and Pippa’s skin is so warm and soft, Hecate wants to kiss her everywhere, so she does. Lets herself have this, for however long it lasts—she knows, eventually, Pippa will have to return to her school. Will have to say goodbye. But for now, with a sliver of moonlight on the pillow and Pippa’s eyes so bright, she’ll take what happiness she can, and hold it tight. 

—

As always, she’d left Pippa’s with a kiss, a small smile, a promise to meet her after work, 29 days left. 

In the bar, she glances at the pelt on the wall, and her stomach forms a knot. She doesn’t hope that this will be the answer to what she needs, but there’s something about Pippa that makes her feel almost whole, for the first time in a long time. Since the last time she went into the sea. 

She’s stacking glasses behind the bar when she feels her grandfather behind her, his magic dark and red. 

“Who’s the girl?” 

Hecate doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. “What girl?” 

He slams a bottle on the bar next to her, and she jumps. “The one you’ve been seeing every night.” 

She swallows, feels his magic spark, electric. “She’s no one.” 

“She’s a witch,” he spits. 

“Is she?” 

Her grandfather grabs her wrist, turns her to him. “Don’t play games with me. I know what you’re doing.” 

“I’m not doing anything,” Hecate says, keeps her chin up, her eyes on his, and his fingers tighten around her wrist. 

“You think you can make her fall in love with you? Break my spell?” He nearly spits the words.

“I’m not trying to—”

“Don’t lie to me,” he snaps. “I know who she is. Pippa Pentangle, the headmistress of one of the most elite witching academies in the world. One of the most renowned witches in her own right.”

Hecate swallows the dread in her stomach. “She doesn’t know anything.” 

“And you’ll keep it that way,” he says. “Otherwise...” He considers Hecate’s expression for a moment, then smiles. “It’d be a shame for her to lose her precious school.” 

Hecate stiffens, glares outright. “You cannot do that.” 

“No? I have friends in high places, Hecate. You’ll do well to remember that. You stay away from her,” he says, leaning in close, and she can’t help but turn away. “If you know what’s good for either of you, you’ll not see her anymore.” 

“She’s just a friend,” Hecate tries, one last time, but her grandfather snorts. 

“You don’t have friends,” he says, dropping her wrist. “You have no one. Understand?” 

She nods, and he backs away, picks up the bottle and retreats to the back of the club. Hecate doesn’t move doesn’t breathe, until his magic dissipates in the air.


	3. there’s your horizon to chase

She doesn’t see Pippa that night, or the night after that or the night after that. 

She stays in her apartment, afraid of running into her, doesn’t leave except to go to the club and back. Pippa doesn’t show up, like Hecate worries she might, and a week goes by without a word. 

She hopes that maybe Pippa has gone home. Left the little seaside town, perhaps a bit wounded, perhaps sad, but safe and without catastrophe. 

Her illusions are dashed when Pippa shows up at her doorstep, a hard look in her eyes masking the obvious pain, and Hecate ushers her quickly inside before she can be seen. 

“One of the patrons told me where you live. Where have you been?” 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Hecate hisses, but Pippa just glares at her. 

“And why not? I thought we were—”

“We’re nothing,” Hecate says sharply, the lie burning her tongue. 

Pippa winces, tears forming in her eyes. “So that’s it? No explanation, no goodbyes?” 

Hecate swallows the bile in her throat. “I thought my absence would have been explanation enough.” 

Pippa sniffs, narrowing her eyes. “Well it’s not. When you left you were happy, you said—”

“I lied.” 

“You’re lying now,” Pippa challenges. “What happened? Did something—did your grandfather—”

She doesn’t mean to, but she flinches, and Pippa stops, stares at her. 

“He said something, didn’t he.” 

“No.” 

“What did he say?” 

“Pippa—”

She shakes her head. “You’ve told me about him. How controlling he is. What did he do?” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“It does if it has you this terrified.” 

Hecate glares. “I’m not terrified.” 

“Yes, you are,” Pippa says softly. She takes a step forward, closer, and Hecate steps back until she hits her sofa, and Pippa stops a few feet away. “What did he say to you, Hecate?” 

Part of her wants to tell her. Wants to warn her, wants to tell her to go, but there’s something in Pippa’s eyes, a stubbornness, a devotion, that Hecate knows means she won’t listen. She’ll risk it, Hecate knows, and she can’t allow that. Can’t let Pippa’s life fall apart for her. 

She opens her mouth to refute it, to send Pippa away with a scathing lie, but when she meets her gaze, the words won’t come. Pippa watches her try, her smile sad and distant, and she looks down for a moment before catching Hecate’s eyes again, her voice soft. 

“When I was a child, I had a best friend. A girl I met, here, in town. I don’t remember what she looked like, only that she was different. Special. We spent an entire summer together, and I loved her. When we left, she promised she would write, and she never did. We never came back, but I’ve missed her. Every day.” 

Hecate swallows. “Why are you telling me this?” 

“Because I should have come back for her. I should have looked for her. I should have—done so many things, and I didn’t because I was afraid it meant nothing to her. I meant nothing.” She shakes her head, and looks Hecate in the eye. “I won’t do it again. I won’t lose you like I lost Joy.”

She hasn’t heard the name in so long, Hecate almost doesn’t recognize it. Almost doesn’t remember. But there’s something in the back of her mind, her mother’s soothing voice, her father’s bright laughter, and her name, what used to be her name, ringing in her ears. 

“Joy?” 

Pippa nods, and Hecate remembers: that summer, the girl she met swimming in the ocean, with bright blonde hair and a wide smile, eyes full of laughter and light. They played together on the beach. Hecate taught her how to swim farther than ever before. They dove for treasures. They made camp on the beach and made paintings in the constellations. She’d forgotten, somehow, the story overwritten by her mother’s leaving, her father’s death, by her grandfather, his instance that she is and always would be alone. His refusal to call her by her given name, refusal to let her go. Let her be. 

She remembers sitting on the front porch of her home, the two of them, braiding flowers into crowns. She remembers the way the lilacs looked against her hair. 

Without a word, she turns, moves into her bedroom, Pippa calling after her. Under her bed is a lockbox, full of money, if she ever gets a chance, a passport, a few keepsakes from her parents, a few letters, a book. Inside the book is a ring of flowers, pressed and dried and brittle, but still there, exactly as she remembers. 

Pippa follows her, stands behind her as she stares down at the ring, her heart beating wildly. 

“Hecate?” 

She turns, and proffers the book to Pippa. 

“What—” Pippa looks from the flowers, back to her, back at the flower. “How did you—”

“My middle name is Hecate,” she says, her voice low and hoarse. “My first name is Joy.” 

Pippa blinks, stares, her mouth opens and closes and for a long moment, she doesn’t say anything. 

“But that’s not possible,” Pippa whispers, her fingers tentatively hovering just above the crown. “My friend, she was—she wasn’t human. Not entirely. And you’re—”

“Not human,” Hecate says softly. “Not entirely.” 

Pippa frowns. “But you won’t go in the water.” 

Hecate looks down, away. “I can’t.” 

Pippa inhales sharply, her eyes wide and wet. “What happened?” she whispers, like it’s a secret she dare not touch. 

Hecate swallows, her throat dry and her eyes sting. She shuts them, tries to even her breathing, tries not to think about the woman standing across from her, the girl she once knew, the happiness she had so long ago. 

And then Pippa’s hand is on her arm, gently coaxing her to sit on the bed, the book closed between them. 

“Tell me,” she murmurs, almost a question. 

So she does. 

She tells her how her mother, always just a little sad, a little lonely, found her pelt one afternoon. Her father had hidden it away, terrified she would leave him if she ever discovered it—she had, and she did, and she never returned.

She tells her how that summer they spent together was the last with her father before he fell ill. How he begged her to leave, to go back to the ocean, to be with her mother in the waves. How she couldn’t leave him. 

How her grandfather hid Hecate’s pelt for decades, refused to let her return to the sea. How he made her sing for him. How he keeps her pelt now, hung up above behind the stage, a spell in place to keep her from ever touching it, ever going near it. A constant reminder. 

“There’s only so long we can be without our skins,” she says, staring down at her hands. “Before we become fully human.” She looks at the notches on the wooden beam by her bed. “I have 25 days left, before...” 

“Before you can’t go back.” 

Hecate nods. “My grandfather destroyed the letter you wrote me, or tried. The envelope burned. I didn’t know where to write.” 

She turns, and opens the box again, pulls out a half-burnt piece of paper. “This is all that was left.” 

Pippa’s eyes water as she takes the letter, an old, yellowing note in a childish hand. 

“It’s really you,” she murmurs. “I knew we had something...” She looks up, her eyes bright and wet. “You were familiar. That’s why I spoke to you, you felt... safe. Like I could finally breathe.” 

Hecate nods, thinks about the first time their hands touched, how warm she felt, for the first time in years. 

But her eyes cloud as she thinks of her grandfather, his threats, and she swallows the knot in her throat as she says, “You can’t stay. My grandfather—he knows people. He’ll ruin your life.” 

Pippa shakes her head. “He can try.” 

“Pippa—”

“I know people too, Hecate,” she says, her voice strong and firm. “And even if I didn’t, I’m not about to let a bitter old man destroy what I’ve built, or what we are.” 

“He’s powerful.” 

Pippa lifts her chin. “So am I.” 

—

Pippa mirrors a friend on the council, a woman with the ear of the Great Wizard. 

“The capture and containment of magical creatures is against the Code,” she says, writing a follow-up letter to the Great Wizard himself. “If he’s caught, he’ll be forced to let you go.” 

Hecate shakes her head. “I’ve tried that, Pippa. He has friends on the council, people protect him.” 

“Then we’ll go straight to the authorities. Straight to the media, if we have to. I know a journalist. She’d never let this stand.”

“I don’t want—” She says, and her voice cracks. Pippa pauses, puts down her pen, looks at her softly. Hecate looks away. “I don’t want revenge, Pippa.” 

Pippa takes her hand, holds it tightly between her own. “What he’s done—it’s reprehensible, Hecate. He stole your life.” 

“He’s the only family I have.” 

“Not anymore,” Pippa says quietly. 

Hecate doesn’t answer. She isn’t sure how. Part of her wants to see him ruined, see him destitute, see him imprisoned, the way he’s imprisoned her for so many years. But a louder, softer part of her doesn’t want any of that. She just wants to leave, to go back to the water, to feel the salt in her skin and the waves. To hear the ocean’s song as it welcomes her back, to see her mother’s family, to let go of everything the past has held, let it slip over her soft as a breeze. 

She wants to be with Pippa, without fear. 

Pippa sighs, and smiles tightly, squeezing her hand before she lets it go, and folds up the letter. 

“We’ll try something else first,” she says. “The spell around your pelts—do you know what it is?” 

Hecate shakes her head, gratitude like a stone in her stomach, and she forces herself not to throw herself into Pippa’s arms. 

“It’s old magic, I know that. More of a curse than a spell, and incredibly powerful.”

“Good thing you’ve got yourself an incredibly powerful witch then.” 

She smiles, and Hecate doesn’t, can’t, doesn’t know how she can let Pippa do this, let her even try. If her grandfather finds out they’re speaking, let alone that Pippa is trying to help her, he’ll come after her, and nothing, nothing is worth that, she knows. Nothing is worth Pippa’s happiness, her safety, her life. 

“Hey.” Pippa’s fingers touch her chin, lift her eyes to hers. “This is my choice. It’s worth the risk.” 

“Pippa—”

Pippa slides her hand up to cup Hecate’s cheek in her palm. “You’re so unhappy, Hecate,” she whispers. 

Hecate takes a shuddering breath. “I might not be. With you.” 

Pippa smiles, but it’s so, achingly sad. “That’s not how it works, darling. You know that. You need to be able to go home, to be with your people. You need to not be alone.” 

—

She has 20 days left the early morning they slip into the club. Her grandfather has gone home, locked the place up tight, but Pippa’s magic easily opens the back door. They leave the lights off, move by the small glow from Pippa’s hands into the main room. On the wall, her pelts look tired and dusty. 

Pippa gives her a tight smile, setting the orb down on a table before she turns to the pelt. She tries so many spells — ancient ones and modern ones and wordless ones. She tries unlocking spells and removal spells and freeing spells. Hecate sits in a chair near the stage and watches, feels her heart sink slowly with each attempt, with Pippa’s building frustration. 

She’d known it was perhaps too good to be true. That this would be too easy, too simple. The magic around her skin whines and sparks and ripples, but it doesn’t release. 

Sunlight begins to creep in through the shutters, and Hecate shakes her head. 

“We need to go.” 

“Just one more,” Pippa says, but there are beads of sweat on her forehead and her hands are trembling, and Hecate rises, folds her hands over Pippa’s and catches her gaze. 

She says nothing, but Pippa’s shoulders slump, and she frees a hand to dash under her eyes, looking away. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. 

Hecate kisses her forehead, runs a hand down her arm. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” 

—

It takes Pippa two days to recover from the expense of magic, and Hecate busies herself bringing her tea and keeping her wrapped in blankets, lets her stay in her apartment, hidden away in the bedroom. 

At night, she returns to the club, washes the glasses, sings her songs, looks her grandfather straight in the eye and tells him Pippa returned home. He eyes her warily, but says nothing, and when Hecate returns to her flat late that night, Pippa is on the sofa, surrounded by books. 

“I summoned them from Pentangle’s,” she says, and before Hecate can open her mouth, adds, “Don’t be cross.” 

“You should not have expended your magic like that.” 

Pippa shakes her head firmly. “I’m not giving up. We still have time.” 

“Not at the expense of your health.” 

Pippa pats the sofa next to her. “My health will recover,” she says, turning back to a large tome open in her lap. 

Hecate sighs, fetches them both tea and sits next to her, their thighs touching, as Pippa explains the texts she’s brought—old volumes of spells and incantations, books on ancient magic and curses, potions and chants and runes. 

“I’m more familiar with modern magic,” she admits, flipping pages in a gold-leafed volume. “I studied ancient magic briefly, but it’s like learning a different language. The rules are different.” 

“How so?” 

“Modern magic is more about channeling positive emotions—it’s about what’s in you, rather than what’s outside of you. Ancient magic relies more on connections—to the earth, the moon, to others. It always requires some kind of exchange, which is why many people don’t practice anymore. It’s difficult to explain.” 

Hecate nods, picks up a book on top of the pile and stares down at the runes on the cover. They mean nothing to her, though she’s seen similar images before. Her father used to read to her for magical texts when she was a child, but she’s forgotten so much of it, all of it faded, buried. 

She makes them food instead, refreshes their tea, insists Pippa put away the books long enough to eat something and rest. 

Pippa protests, but after she eats her head finds its way into Hecate’s lap, and she curls up on the sofa, closes her eyes at the feeling of Hecate’s fingers brushing through her hair. She falls asleep that way, and Hecate stares down at her, feels her heart pinch. 

Part of her wants to let the time go by. Let it lapse. Let her skins stay where they are, let herself stay with Pippa, the way she is now. Wants to stay human for her, stay on the shore, where they can be together, in some way or another. She thinks, brushing a stray strand of hair back from Pippa’s face, that she could survive that way. That as long as she has Pippa, as long as they’re together, she could survive anything, even if it meant never being able to return to the water. 

But she thinks of Pippa’s words, the ache in her own heart when she thinks of the sea, and wonders if it would be fair to Pippa. To be with someone with another longing. To be with someone who always, no matter how happy, would dream of being someplace else. 

Leaning forward, Hecate picks up another book, skims through it, the spells, the ingredients for potions. She recognizes a healing draught her father used to make when she was sick, but otherwise, there’s little she can do to help. It makes her feel useless, trapped, and she has to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic in her throat. 

She sets the book down and looks at the stack again, startled, this time, to recognize the cover of an old, leather-bound volume. 

Picking it up, she opens it to a page in the middle, sees spells what looks like Latin; but the book has a familiar weight to it, the gold on the cover much brighter than she remembers, but she does remember: 

Her grandfather, reading to her from it when she was small, before her father died. Sitting on his lap on the porch of their home, as he told her about ancient magic, born in the earth long before humans ever existed, how it laid in waiting for someone to master it. 

She’d always felt something uneasy at that; the idea that anyone or anything would want to be controlled, to be tamed. 

She waits until Pippa is awake before handing her the text. 

“My grandfather owns this, or at least, he used to.” 

Pippa blinks and takes the book, frowning at the cover. “You’re certain?” 

Hecate nods. “He used to read it to me.” 

“Cheery,” Pippa mutters, and then yawns, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth, embarrassed. “Sorry.” She shakes her head. “I’ll get some more tea and—”

Hecate takes the book away from her, takes her hand. “Enough, Pippa,” she says softly. 

Pippa protests, but Hecate pulls her to her feet, leads her to the bedroom and tucks her under the covers. 

“Just a few minutes.” 

“Of course.” 

Pippa looks up at her, eyes full of sleep. “Stay with me?” 

Hecate changes out of her clothes and slips under the covers, feels Pippa turn, curl into her side and press a kiss to her shoulder. 

“Love you,” she mumbles, and Hecate feels her eyes sting. 

—

Pippa is gone when she wakes. There’s a note on the pillow, saying she’s gone for a quick run to clear her head, and Hecate frets. If her grandfather sees her, if he knows she’s still in town—

But Pippa returns less than an hour later, sweaty and smiling and Hecate can’t stop herself from kissing her breathless, relieved and overwhelmed. “You’re alright?” she breathes against her lips, and Pippa nods. 

“I’m fine, darling,” she says, but there’s a strain in her voice that makes Hecate pause, makes her pull away when Pippa tries to kiss her again. “Hecate?” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” Pippa says, but her voice is too high, too casual, and Hecate narrows her gaze. “I’m fine, I promise.” 

Hecate roams her eyes over her face, looks for a lie. There’s a faint panic in Pippa’s eyes, and for the first time, Hecate notices that she’s trembling, and it’s not from her touch. 

“What happened?” 

Pippa swallows, tries to protest, but Hecate shakes her head firmly, and she sighs. “It’s nothing to worry about, just... grandstanding,” she says, and Hecate feels panic coil in her stomach. 

“What grandstanding?” 

“Hecate—”

“Pippa,” she says sharply, and there must be a trace of her nerves, because Pippa takes her hands, rubs her thumb softly over her skin. 

“It’s just the council. They mirrored me this morning—they’ve moved up the inspection of my school by two months. It’s absolutely nothing I can’t handle, and they’ll find nothing. I’ve passed every single one with flying colors since Pentangle’s was founded.” 

“Can they legally do that?” 

Pippa snorts. “They can initiate inspections at any time, but they’d have to produce grounds in order to actually shut the school down. They’ve done it to me before, and it’s nothing more than a pathetic attempt at intimidation.” 

Hecate tilts her head, eyes her warily. “You’re still worried about it.” 

“I’m always worried about it,” she admits, “But I trust my deputy to keep things in line until I get back. There’s no rush,” she assures her, cupping Hecate’s cheek in her palm. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Hecate bites her lip, looks down at the floor. “If the council sent you that, it means my grandfather knows you’re still here.” 

“I’m certain he does,” Pippa says calmly. “But this is the right thing to do, and I would never forgive myself if I left now.” 

Hecate nods, knows there’s nothing she can say that will convince Pippa otherwise. She hadn’t wanted it to come to this, never wanted Pippa to choose between her and the life she’s built, and she knows if things stay the way they are, it might come to that. The thought makes her ill, but Pippa lets go of her hands, wraps her arms around Hecate’s neck and whispers into her neck, 

“You are worth the risk.” 

Hecate doesn’t know if that’s true, doesn’t know if she can believe her; but she tightens her arms around her anyway, and holds on as tight as she dares. 

—

While Pippa’s in the shower, Hecate finds the letter she’d written to the Great Wizard. It may not help, it may do nothing, but if Pippa is hell bent on freeing her, Hecate knows she must do everything in her power to protect Pippa. 

She doesn’t have magic, but Pippa had written the address on the envelope, and Hecate hopes that ordinary postage will do. She mails the letter on her way to work, and hopes it will reach the Great Wizard in time, hopes that he will listen to her, that he’ll do something. It’s the only option she has left, and that night, when she sings and her grandfather watches her smugly from across the room, she knows it was the right decision. 

—

She doesn’t go straight home after her set. Instead, she wanders down to the beach, toes off her shoes and walks slowly along the sand, toward the water. It’s dark, and the crests of the waves are bright white under the dim light from the promenade. Her feet sink into the wet sand as she draws closer, stopping just out of reach of the water, lapping eagerly towards her skin. 

It calls to her, the way it always does, but she’s never felt conflicted—never wanted anything as much as she’s longed for the ocean. But now, she thinks of Pippa, back in her small flat, thinks of Pippa’s smiles and Pippa’s touch, Pippa’s laughter. It’s almost brighter than the song of the sea, and her chest aches. 

She cannot take Pippa with her, she knows that. But nor can she stay much longer. Despite what she wishes, the land exhausts her, and she knows if too much time goes by, if they fail, she’ll never be fully whole again. Will always be without. Just a little bit alone, even with Pippa. 

And Pippa doesn’t deserve that. Doesn’t deserve someone who is only half there. She thinks of her mother, the way she would spend so many nights staring out at the ocean, the way she would cry herself to sleep. How much it hurt her, how it hurt her father, to see her so unhappy, full of such longing. 

The waves crest and creep away, and Hecate stares out at the dark of the water, and wishes, for the first time, she wasn’t her mother’s daughter. Wishes she were human, a witch, like Pippa, like her father; wishes she could stay on land and just _be._

The waves crest, and she sees a shadow far out, bobbing in the dim light from the pier. She thinks it’s a figment of her imagination, at first, and then it moves closer, and she can make out the eyes, mournful, the slick skin of a seal, watching her, waiting. 

She knows it’s her mother. Knows, by the wind that sweeps across her skin and carries its call to her, and her eyes sting. She’s waiting for her, too far out to touch, and Hecate holds her breath, waits for her to come on land, to come back to her, to shed her skin and open her arms and give her courage, for once. 

She doesn’t. Her mother stays in the shallows, and Hecate feels tears roll down her cheeks, feels lost, empty, like there are no good choices and no good outcomes. 

Her mother calls to her, and Hecate feels furious, feels heartbroken, that no matter how badly she needs her, her mother stays in the waves. 

It makes her not want to return, makes her want to stay; but the ocean is gentle, welcoming, and it isn’t just her mother she misses, she needs. It’s the water under her belly, the salt in her hair, the others, like her, waiting. 

_Come home,_ the sea whispers. 

With a shuddering breath, Hecate steps away from the water, and back toward land.


	4. the shape of the boundary you leave behind

When she returns home, Pippa is waiting for her, pacing nervously across the living room. She sags in relief at the sight of her, then frowns, reading her expression, the conflict there, and she sighs. 

“Oh, darling,” she murmurs, and crosses the room, enfolds her in an embrace and Hecate clings as tight as she dares, for as long as she dares before she pulls back and kisses her fiercely. Pippa squeaks slightly against her lips, and Hecate almost laughs. 

“Pipsqueak,” she murmurs. “I called you Pipsqueak.” 

Pippa’s eyes water and she nods, and Hecate surges forward, kisses her again, walks her backwards into the bedroom and strips them both out of their clothes. It’s messy and sweaty and desperate, and Hecate holds fast, touches Pippa with all the adoration and love she can, hopes that she can feel it in the space between them. 

They shower together after, for far longer than necessary, content to run their hands over each other’s skin and exchange slow, wet kisses. When they’re finished, Pippa sits on the edge of the bed and braids Hecate’s hair down her back, stopping occasionally to press a kiss to her bare shoulder. There’s something a bit frantic in her touch, a bit like longing, that Hecate doesn’t understand. She’s here, and she isn’t going anywhere, but Pippa touches her like she’s saying goodbye. 

She doesn’t understand why until they’ve settled back on the sofa, and Pippa picks up the book again, the one her grandfather owns, and says, 

“I think I know how to free you.” 

Hecate stills, and Pippa opens the book to a dog-eared page, a spell in calligraphy with an ornate frame around it. The words are Latin, and while Hecate remembers some from her childhood—her father was teaching her—most of it means nothing to her. But Pippa stares down at it, almost solemn, her fingers tracing over the words. 

“What does it say?” 

Pippa clears her throat. “It’s an old curse, a locking spell that keeps things from being touched or removed.” 

“But you tried an unlocking spell.” 

“I tried a modern one. Curses like this—they need direct counterspells. It’ll have to be in Latin, will have to draw on old magic.” 

“I’m not sure I understand.” 

“It’s a bit hard to explain. The point is, I think I can write a counter-spell. I’ll need a bit of time, to go back to my place and look through a few texts there. Can you meet me in the club tomorrow, after it’s closed?” 

Hecate nods. “Of course, but I—”

Pippa hushes her with a kiss. “It’ll work, Hecate. I promise. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be free.” 

—

That night in the club, she sings all the mournful songs she knows. _The Nearness of You_ and _Cry Me a River,_ slow and low. The band behind her fades out, and _Gloomy Sunday_ makes the patrons weep. It feels like a goodbye, to the life she’s known for so long, and though she isn’t sad to leave it, there’s a melancholy she can’t escape, despite knowing Pippa isn’t there to hear it. _I’ll Be Seeing You_ is a hymn for her, for what they could have had, and Hecate blinks away the tears in her eyes, blames the bright lights, though she’s never cried on stage before. 

When her set is over, she slips backstage, slips out and goes home and gathers the few possessions she has, the things she wants to keep. She places everything in a small duffle bag—the book, with their flower crown inside. A few framed photos of her family. Her savings, as meager as they are, and a few changes of clothes. With a shuddering breath, she removes her pocket watch, places it in a small box and the box in the bag and zips it shut. 

She spends a few minutes wandering her flat, looking at the place she’s called home for so long, and feels no ache in leaving it. There’s nothing for her here, never has been, and it’s easy to close the door and lock it, to slip the key in her bag as well, and leave it behind. 

She heads to the beach, to a secluded area not many tourists or even locals know about, and buries the bag deep in the sand. She’ll remember, and someday, when she returns, she’ll need it. Need a few things to remember. 

The club is dark when she arrives, and Pippa is waiting out back, wrapped in a thick black coat, and the sight of it, Pippa, without her pink, makes Hecate’s heart pinch. 

“Alright?” Pippa asks quietly, and Hecate nods. 

“Are you?” 

Pippa gives a nod and a faint smile, and kisses her softly, sweetly. Hecate draws it out, keeps her hand on Pippa’s hip to hold her close for as long as she can. 

When they enter the club, it’s silent and empty, and Pippa lights the way again with her magic, sets the small glowing orb on the table in front of the stage, and pulls out the book from her satchel. 

“Ready?” She asks, and Hecate can only nod, can’t speak, as Pippa turns to the stage, to her pelt, hanging limply on the wall. 

When she speaks, it isn’t English—Latin, Hecate thinks—and her voice is weak at first, trembling. She clears her throat, and starts again, stronger, more determined. 

Slowly, the magic around her pelts starts to ripple, starts to glow. Pippa’s magic is bright, and Hecate feels the same yellow feeling she felt when they first met, stronger now, with Pippa directing all her energy at the skin. There are little sparks, like fireworks, little lights that gather near Pippa and make their way forward, and Hecate wants to watch, wants to see, but she can’t pull her eyes away from Pippa’s face. 

Her voice cracks slightly, though Hecate doesn’t know what she’s saying, and the magic against the wall ripples, seems to fight back. Pippa squares her jaw and repeats what she’d said, pushing out with her hand, directing her magic. Hecate can feel her grandfather’s magic waning, feels it pulse and shiver, and she holds her breath, doesn’t dare take her eyes away from Pippa. 

There’s a tear in her eye and her hand is trembling, and Hecate moves closer, whispers softy, “Pippa.” They have time. Not much. A few days left, but Pippa is shaking, and there are beads of sweat around her brow, and Hecate worries. 

Pippa shakes her head resolutely, keeps focused, refuses to stop. She speaks louder, more forcefully, and then, there’s a ripple, a pulse around her belts and a bright light that snaps and fades almost immediately, and the room goes still. Quiet. 

Hecate winces, opens her eyes slowly, sees first Pippa, slumped against the table, and she reaches for her immediately, an arm around her waist, hand on her shoulder as she helps her into a chair. 

“Pipsqueak?” 

Pippa smiles up at her, a bit tremulous. “I’m alright,” she assures her, squeezing her hand. “I’m fine. Just a bit tired.” Pippa looks up, looks at the pelt on the wall, and nods to it. “It’s free.”

Hecate blinks, startled. She’d forgotten, for a moment, the rush in her ears too full of _Pippa, Pippa, Pippa._ But when she turns, her skin looks different, brighter, less full of dust. She looks back to Pippa, uncertain, and Pippa pushes her gently toward the stage with a smile. 

Hecate swallows, and slowly, tentatively, steps up on the stage, moves to the wall and stands in front of her pelt, terrified, that it won’t have worked, that it did work, that this is it, or that nothing has changed. Cautiously, with a trembling hand, she reaches out and brushes her fingers over the pelt, the fur there as soft as she remembers, jet black and cool to her touch. 

Her eyes sting, but she barely has a moment to breathe when there’s a frisson of magic, something dark and red and a hand clamps down over her wrist, her grandfather, standing beside her thunderous. 

“You think I don’t protect what belongs to me?” he hisses, his grip tight enough to bruise, and he lifts his free hand, his lips parted in a spell and then her pelt is gone, vanished from the wall, and he stutters, eyes wide and whirls. Pippa is standing straight, her arms full of the pelt, a hard look in her eyes Hecate has never seen before. 

“Let her go.” 

Her grandfather drops her hand, but it’s only to wave his own, magic rippling in the air as he tries to grab the pelt back. Pippa blocks him, a streak of pink magic that pushes back against him, knocks him sideways into the wall. 

“How dare you—” he starts, and Pippa glares at him, hand trembling with fury. 

“It’s over,” she snaps. 

“You have no right to interfere,” he says, straightening, magic sparking and Hecate moves away, off the stage, closer to Pippa. “You don’t understand what you’ve done.” 

“What I’ve done is free my friend,” Pippa says sharply. “What you’ve done is abominable, and you’re finished.” 

He tries again to take the pelt, and Pippa blocks him again, and Hecate moves even closer, her arm brushing Pippa’s. There’s not much she can do, no magic she can use to help, but she can stand tall, she can stay with her, she can protect her, in whatever way she can. 

“I’m protecting her.” 

“From what?” Pippa demands. “Because the way I see it, you’re nothing more than a selfish old man, holding your granddaughter hostage to suit your wants.” 

His jaw clenches and he steps forward, and Hecate moves, puts her body between herself and Pippa. She sees his eyes widen in surprise, his hand twitch by side. 

“Move out of the way, Hecate.” 

“No.” 

“You don’t know what you’ve done,” he repeats. 

“I’m going home.” 

“I will never allow you to—”

“You have no choice.” Hecate steps forward, closer, feels Pippa tense behind her, but as angry as she is, as frightened as she is, there’s something in her grandfather’s eyes, some terror, that makes her voice soften, strong and firm but gentle, somehow. 

“You’re not happy, grandfather. This—” She gestures to the club. “Keeping me here doesn’t make you happy.” 

“Happiness is irrelevant.” 

“Then what’s the point?” she asks softly. He’s silent, and Hecate shakes her head. “You don’t love me. So why keep me here? You ruin us both.” 

He narrows his eyes, jaw clenching. 

Hecate steps a bit closer, to the edge of the stage, looks up at him, his face shadowed in the dim light. “I know,” she whispers. “I know how difficult it was when my mother left—”

“You know nothing,” he spits.

“Then tell me. For once, just... tell me.” 

His eyes darken and his hand is shaking with anger, and Hecate takes a step back, closer to Pippa, shielding her with her own body. 

“Your mother didn’t leave,” he says, his voice low and magic sparking. “She didn’t find her skin. Your father gave it to her.” 

Hecate swallows. She’d wondered, all her life, why her mother returned to the sea. Wondered why she never came back. 

“I kept her safe,” he says, his anger building. “I kept her here, with us, like I kept her mother, and your father—” 

Hecate nods slowly. “He let her go.” 

“He betrayed her.” 

“No,” Hecate says. “He released her. He loved her.” 

“She was my daughter.” 

“So you kept me instead.” 

He scowls. “A pathetic replacement.” 

“Then let me go.” 

He wavers. He eyes her sharply, his magic a dark cloud around him, building like a thunderstorm. He looks at her, looks at Pippa behind her, clutching her pelt tightly. And he wavers. She can see it in his eyes, see the doubt there, the restlessness she knows only too well. She can see all of his convictions falter, and for a moment, he looks at her with something akin to sympathy, something like remorse. 

And then his eyes narrow and he lifts a hand and says “Never,” and she can feel his magic around her, a transference spell in progress. She closes her eyes, hates the feeling, hates the way his magic stings her skin, so unlike Pippa’s, warm and gentle. 

She expects to be taken away, expects the rolling darkness of his magic, but there’s a pulse, and it’s gone, and when she opens her eyes she’s standing on the beach, with Pippa, her grandfather nowhere in sight. 

“Go,” Pippa says. She turns, and Pippa pushes her pelt into her arms. It’s soft and heavy and feels like home. “Go, now, before he follows.” 

“I’m not leaving you.” 

Pippa smiles tremulously, shaking her head. “I’ll be fine, darling.” She softens, holding Hecate’s elbow gently. “I know you sent the letter to the Great Wizard. He should be here within a few days to sort things out. And even if he isn’t, there’s nothing your grandfather can do once you’re gone.” 

Hecate shakes her head, mid protest, and Pippa kisses her, quick and sharp. 

“You stayed once, Hecate. For your father. Don’t do it again.” 

Her voice cracks. “I can’t. I can’t leave you.”

“Yes, you can.” Pippa’s eyes are bright with tears and she cups Hecate’s cheeks in her palms, thumbs soft over her skin. “You’ve been trapped too long, my love. Go. Go home.” 

Hecate looks over her shoulder, looks at the ocean, calling her, louder than she’s ever heard. She looks back at Pippa, watching her with so much love, and she can’t move. Can hardly breathe, her chest tight and it hurts, so much. Too much. 

“Pippa,” she whispers. 

Pippa kisses her again, fiercely, and Hecate clings back to her, her pelt between them, and she wishes she were different. Normal. Magic. Wishes she were someone else, someone who could stay. 

“I’ll come back,” she promises, pressing her forehead to Pippa’s. 

Pippa smiles sadly, and shakes her head. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” 

Hecate swallows, and lifts a hand to trace down Pippa’s cheek. “I’ll come back,” she says, firmly this time, and Pippa nods, a tear rolling down her face and Hecate lifts her chin and kisses her fiercely, one last time. She wants to tell her she loves her, but it feels unfair, feels selfish, so she keeps quiet, keeps the words on her tongue and kisses Pippa enough that she hopes she can taste them. 

When they finally pull away, panting, Pippa presses her forehead to Hecate’s again, squeezes her hands tightly, and then steps away. 

Hecate shudders at the loss of her, but she can hear the ocean, singing brightly to her, calling her. It’s like a magnet, and slowly, she steps away. Slowly, she sheds her clothes, pulls her skin up over her shoulders and makes her way toward the water. For the first time in decades, she feels the ocean lick at her toes, and almost laughs. It feels like home, like sweetness and safety, and she walks until her knees are submerged, clutches tighter to her pelt. 

She turns one last time, sees Pippa on the shore, her hand pressed to her chest. But she’s waving, and smiling so wide, and Hecate stares at her for a long moment, wants to keep the picture of her, wants to keep that smile safe in her mind’s eye. 

Then she turns, takes a deep breath, and plunges beneath the waves.


	5. the light in me will guide you home

_Two years later_

The train is strange. There are so many people, and the way it shudders and rolls makes her uneasy. She holds her duffle in her lap tightly, with her few possessions, and her skin, folded neatly and tucked safely inside. 

It isn’t as difficult as she thought it would be, being away from the ocean. Her pelt is safe, with her, and that eases her mind and her body, though she isn’t certain she’d be able to sing, even now. Not that she wants to. Not that she ever will again, not the way she did for so many years. 

When she emerged from the water, the town looked much the same. But the club had new ownership—the butcher’s wife, and her two sons. The woman her grandfather ruined before, working happily behind the bar. She’d explained how quickly it changed—how not long after she disappeared, the Great Wizard came to town. An event, to be sure, especially when he shut down the club and his guards swept her grandfather away—“Prison, I think,” she says, conspiratorially. A week after that, she’d been approached by a woman in pink, who’d given her the deed to the club, to do with as she would. 

Hecate rememberers telling Pippa about the woman, about her guilt, and her hearts seized at the thought that Pippa had gone out of her way to right yet another wrong. 

She doesn’t know what to expect, doesn’t know exactly how long it’s been—two years, roughly, she thinks—but she’d tucked her pelt into her bag and donned a black dress and gone anyway, taken the train down to London. 

King’s Cross is overwhelming and frightening, too many people, too much noise, but she tries her best to focus, to emerge from the station and look around at all the tall buildings, the people, the cars and buses and it hurts her head, but she’s here for a reason. 

It takes a while for her to recognize a wizard, driving a taxi. It seems incongruous, but he smiles at her when she says ‘Pentangle’s’ and nods. He chatters amiably on the ride out of the city, but doesn’t seem to mind her reticence. Hecate watches as the city fades, gives way to rolling hills and smaller towns. 

Pentangle’s, Pippa had told her, was at the top of a high hill, overlooking a valley. She’d described the white stones they used to build it, the many windows, the gardens surrounding it and the forest not too far away, and Hecate takes it all in, exactly as she described it. It’s summer now, the heat sticky and unpleasant, but Hecate doesn’t notice much, except the way her heart picks up as the castle comes into view. 

The driver drops her at the front entrance, a massive archway that still somehow seems inviting rather than intimidating, especially in the bright sunshine. She tips him handsomely, and he leaves her outside the gate with a wave and a smile. 

The gate is open, people milling about—there are people in the garden, pruning trees and tending to flowers. People coming in and out of the castle, people using magic to clean the windows and fix any stones that have chipped or fallen away. 

Hecate slips inside unnoticed, and the castle is vast—its high archways make even her quiet footsteps echo, and she follows the corridor, finds a massive room with a few people inside, what looks to be a catering crew, people hanging lights, and a large banner that reads ‘Pentangle’s 13th Annual Gala’ in bright pink. 

Hecate can’t help but smile. 

She stands in the middle of the enormous hall, uncertain what to do or where to go, where to find Pippa in all of this. 

And then a man approaches her, dressed in a tweed jacket, with spectacles and an easy if confused smile. 

“May I help you?” 

Hecate jumps slightly, and he offers her an apologetic smile. 

She hesitates, then takes a deep breath. “I’m looking for Miss Pentangle.” 

The man nods politely. “She’ll be in her office, I believe. Can I ask your business?” 

“I— I’m an old friend,” she offers. 

“I’ll show you the way, it’s just down to the—” he starts, and then there’s magic, so soft, so familiar, bright and yellow and when she turns towards it, Pippa is there, staring down at a file in her hand, already speaking, 

“Amos, do you know where the old rosters are? Evelyn wants to line the halls with early class photos and I think it’s a wonderful idea to—” 

She looks up, and freezes. 

She looks the same—her hair pulled back, a few strands framing her face. She’s wearing a pink dress, and heels, more formal than what Hecate’s used to seeing her in, jeans and sweaters mostly, but still the same bright shade. 

Hecate doesn’t know what to expect, what will happen. If things are different now. If she’s found someone else. If she’s moved on. She doesn’t know, and Pippa isn’t saying a word, staring at her with her lips lightly parted; and then, so softly, 

“Hecate?” 

Hecate nods, but her throat is tight and she can’t speak for a moment, clears her throat and tries again, 

“Pippa.” 

Pippa shudders, doesn’t move, doesn’t look like she’s breathing, and Hecate panics, isn’t certain her presence is welcome or wanted. 

“I—returned this morning,” she says carefully, unable to take her eyes off Pippa. “I apologize for the intrusion, I—”

But Pippa shakes her head, “It’s not—” she starts, and her voice falls away. “Are you really here?” 

Hecate nods, her heart in her throat. 

And then Pippa lets out a choked cry, and the next thing Hecate knows she’s in her arms, Pippa’s face pressed into her neck and Pippa’s arms around her shoulders and she’s holding her so tightly, clinging to her, and Hecate shivers, drops her bag, wraps her own arms around Pippa’s back and holds tightly. 

“You’re here,” Pippa whispers. “You came back.” 

Hecate sniffles, and buries her face in Pippa’s neck. “I promised.” 

Pippa laughs, a strangled, delighted sound that shivers down Hecate’s spine, and when she pulls back finally her eyes are damp, her smile wide. She bites her lip, and cups Hecate’s cheek in her palm. 

“I missed you,” she whispers, and Hecate can do nothing but lean into her touch. 

“I missed you, too. Pipsqueak.” 

Pippa sniffles, opens her mouth to say something but there’s the clearing of a throat beside them, and Hecate startles, remembers then there are other people in the room, and that the man—Amos, Pippa had called him—is standing nearby, watching them with a confused smile. 

Pippa nearly giggles, but turns so she can hook an arm through Hecate’s and holds her close. 

“Amos, this is my—” She stops, and her expression falters for a moment before she shakes her head. “This is Hecate Hardbroom.” 

Amos’ eyes widen, a flicker of recognition there, and he lifts a hand to his head and bows slightly. “Well met, Miss Hardbroom. I’m Amos Mulligan, Pippa’s deputy.” 

“My right hand man,” Pippa says, “Don’t know what I’d do without him.” 

Amos sighs, but it’s good natured. “You’re just being nice to me so I’ll take over looking for those rosters.” 

Pippa beams. “Be a dear?” 

He huffs, but he’s smiling as he takes the papers from her hands. Pippa bends and picks up Hecate’s bag before turning to her. “Do you have time to stay awhile? I could make us some tea.” 

There’s hesitation there, and longing, and Hecate nods, feels Pipppa’s magic surround her for a moment as she transfers them into a darker bedroom, with a ensuite off to one side and a living space with a large desk, a few couches, and a fireplace off to the other. It’s decorated, unsurprisingly, in shades of pink and creams, and Pippa waves a hand to open the curtains, letting more light in. She sets Hecate’s bag on the bed and busies about making tea, and Hecate had almost forgotten, how much she loves watching her use magic. 

It isn’t like her grandfather’s magic, which always felt heavy and cloying. Pippa’s, instead, is easy, light, as she flicks a finger this way to set the kettle steaming, moves a wrist that way to summon two pink teacups. It’s soothing, and Hecate takes a seat on the sofa when Pippa gestures, relieved when she sits down next to her instead of across, their knees bumping. 

For a moment, they simply sit in silence, eyes flickering toward one another and then away, uncertain, apprehensive. Hecate isn’t certain what to say—how to apologize for what she did, leaving her. How to make things right. 

She’s thought about it nearly every day. Even in the ocean, even on the days she never felt freer, more at peace, she thought of Pippa, longed for her, part of her unable to help but regret her decision. She knows she had no choice, really—knows what would have happened if she’d have stayed. 

But she knows she’s missed so much, too much, in the years between them, and she doesn’t know how to bridge that, how to ask—if she’s alright. If she’s met someone new. How her family’s doing, her school, her students. She knows it wouldn’t be fair to show up out of the blue two years later and expect everything to be the same, but part of her hopes that at least they’ll still be friends, still matter to one another. That she’ll still matter to Pippa. 

The silence stretches, and Hecate glances at Pippa, sees Pippa glancing at her. They both look away, both look back, and then Pippa slowly smiles. Starts to laugh. “Oh, this is ridiculous,” she says, and sets down her tea in favor of grasping Hecate’s hands. 

“Tell me everything,” she says, and Hecate does: 

Tells her about the ocean, about going home. About seeing her mother again, after so many years. The anger she’d felt at first, all those years, abandoned. And then the truth of it—that her mother tried to return. Tried so many times, but she was gone too long, and her ability to change fell away. 

“It’s the same principle as on land,” Hecate tells Pippa. “If we stay too long in one form, we can’t go back.” 

Pippa frowns. “But she knew that. Why didn’t she—”

“Time moves strangely in the water,” Hecate admits. “I had no idea, until I was back in land, how much time had passed.” She gives a small smile. “The same thing happened to my mother. She wanted to come back, she just… couldn’t. We were both trapped.”

“And now you’re together again.” 

Hecate nods, and Pippa tells her about life at Pentangle’s, her students, her travels. She tells her what she already knew about her grandfather, and more—that he’s being held on charges of violating the code, that his release will be years down the line, and dependent on good behavior. 

“You can go see him, of course, if you want,” Pippa says. 

“Perhaps,” Hecate says, but the thought doesn’t fill her with as much dread as she imagined. “Thank you—for giving the club to Miss Nattingly. I spoke to her briefly before I left and she—seems very happy.” 

Pippa nods. “Of course. How—how long have you been back on land?” 

“Just this morning.” 

“This morning, I—you came straight here?” Hecate nods, and Pippa tutts at her, but her eyes are soft and warm. “You must be exhausted.” 

“A little,” Hecate admits. “But I’m alright.” 

“Is this the first time you’ve been back on land, since…” 

“I couldn’t bear the thought for a while,” she admits. “If something happened. If I’d been forced to stay, again, I…” 

Pippa nods. “Understandable. But why now? Did something change?” 

Hecate smiles, a bit uncertain. “I…wanted to see you.” She clears her throat, and adds, “I wanted to see you more than I was afraid.” 

“Oh, darling,” Pippa murmurs, leans forward and enfolds her in another warm, brief hug. “I’m so glad you’re here. How long can you stay?” 

“I’m not certain,” Hecate says after she pulls back. “I have my pelt, so it isn’t as bad as the last time. A week, at least, I think.” 

Pippa beams. “You can come to the gala, if you like. You’re welcome to stay here, of course, we have spare rooms, or—” Pippa breaks off, looks away, suddenly unsure. 

“Or?” 

Pippa looks up at her, eyes wide and searching. “You could stay with me. That is, if you…” 

Hecate hesitates. “I—I wasn’t certain if you—”

“If I what?” 

“Moved on. Found someone. I wouldn’t blame you, of course. Two years is—” 

“Nothing,” Pippa interrupts softly, her thumb brushing over Hecate’s wrist. “I’d wait a hundred times that if I had to.” 

Hecate swallows, looks down at their hands. “You shouldn’t. I abandoned you. I left you with my grandfather—”

“A situation that was easily sorted,” Pippa interrupts. “Besides, I told you to go, and—did it help? Being home again? Not being alone?” 

Hecate nods. 

“Then how could I ever regret it?” 

“I still left you.” 

Pippa smiles softly. “And you came back. You always come back to me.” 

Hecate nods. “I always will,” she promises, and thinks, if the kiss Pippa gives her is any indication, that this time, she believes it. 

\--

As soon as the gala is over, and everything is taken care of, they return to the water. Pippa still has her parents’ beach house, and she stays there the remaining three weeks before term begins. Most days they spend wrapped up together—in bed, or on the porch swing overlooking the ocean. 

For the first time, Hecate lets her see her other side, lets them swim together, lets Pippa brush her hand along her back and stay with her when she slips in or out of her pelt. 

The days are slow and languid, a little refuge from the world. Pippa gives Hecate a key to the house, tells her it’s as much hers as it is Pippa’s, to stay in it whenever she needs. They make arrangements for Pippa to come back during her breaks, the winter months, the summer months, and any time in between. 

Hecate promises to visit Pentangle’s as often as she can, for as long as she can, so long as she won’t be in the way, and Pippa teases her, at the same time tries to convince her to do guest lectures on magical creatures for her students. Hecate rolls her eyes and insists she isn’t suited for children, but she can’t say she entirely minds the prospect, and promises to at least consider it. 

The last night before Pippa has to return to her school, they spend it walking along the beach, sand between their toes, hands clasped together. It’s humid and warm, despite the ocean breeze, but Hecate doesn’t mind much. 

Her pelt is stashed safely away in the cottage, with a spell Pippa designed over them so only Hecate can move them. She thinks of it now, fondly, without the intense longing she used to have, and remembers the night Pippa freed it from the wall, remembers her determination, her strength, her love. 

She thinks of her grandfather’s words, how he’d promised she’d never find someone to break his spell. 

Thinks of the book, the old magic, the language she couldn’t understand. 

“You told me once,” she starts slowly, “that old magic was about connections—to people, to the land.”

“That’s right.”

“You said more than modern magic, it requires an exchange. That old magic always asks for something in return.” 

“That’s true,” Pippa says. “It’s one of the reasons people don’t practice it as much anymore—it takes a much larger toll on the practitioner.” 

Hecate nods, thinking. “The spell my grandfather used—it was like that, wasn’t it? Required an exchange?” 

Pippa nods. “The spell he used was very old, very cruel. To unlock it you had to let go of something that mattered, or it wouldn’t work. That’s why we failed the first time.” She offers an apologetic smile. “I wasn’t ready.” 

Hecate swallows, feels a panic fluttering in her chest and she and stops, Pippa following suit, their hands still clasped. “What did you let go of?”

Pippa blinks at her, confused. “What do you mean?” 

“When you freed me. What did you give up?” 

Pippa softens instantly, squeezing her hand. “Darling, isn’t it obvious?” 

Hecate frowns, and shakes her head, and Pippa sighs softly, still smiling gently, and reaches up, brushes a long strand of hair out of Hecate’s eyes. 

“It was you. I gave you up so you could be free.” 

For a moment, Hecate doesn’t understand. Can’t fathom why that would be a sacrifice. And then Pippa smiles at her, so soft, and there’s so much love in her eyes it almost winds her. She thinks of the girl she once knew, her bright smile and laughter, the way she’d spent all her time with Hecate that summer, the way they’d danced together in the waves. 

Without thinking, Hecate begins to pull Pippa down the beach, toward the water. 

“What are you doing?” Pippa laughs, but Hecate just keeps walking, pulling her until they’re nearly waist deep in the cold ocean. Pippa squeals and laughs, her dress soaked, and teases Hecate about buying her a new one, but she arches up on her toes and kisses her, and Hecate wraps her arms around Pippa’s waist, pulls her in close. 

When the kiss ends, Hecate lays one hand on Pippa’s waist, takes Pippa’s hand with the other, and moves them back and forth against the waves. 

“What are you doing?” Pippa asks, confused, but delighted, and Hecate smiles softly. 

“Dancing in the ocean,” she says. 

Pippa blinks, and for a moment, Hecate thinks she doesn’t remember—and then her eyes brighten and she beams, her laughter louder as she lets Hecate spin her slowly, clumsily around before pulling her back in close. 

Hecate hums under her breath, her voice low and sweet, and the ocean harmonizes with her song.


End file.
